The wind had changed.
Dust, once loose and wandering, now clung to their boots like memory. The path away from the Fire and Dust Markets wound through collapsed shale and the burned ribs of something ancient—a creature, a temple, perhaps both.
Torren walked a step behind Evelyn, his pace slow. Too slow.
She stopped. "Let me carry it."
"No."
"You're limping. Again."
"I said no." His voice was hard. Edged.
Evelyn hesitated, gaze drifting to the bone sliver tucked into her pouch. The one that pulsed faintly near her core shard, always warm. Always whispering.
"You can't just ignore it," she said.
He turned to face her fully now. "You think I don't know that?"
Vareth, crouched ahead scouting a ridge, glanced back but said nothing.
"You saved a child without even thinking. Pulled power like it belonged to you. Do you know what that looks like to someone who's just… just normal?" Torren gestured roughly to himself, to his wrapped leg.
Evelyn's mouth opened, then closed. He wasn't shouting. That was worse. He sounded tired—bitter.
"I trained my whole life," Torren went on. "I studied the Warden paths, learned bladecraft, memorized our history. I bled for this land. And now I can barely walk, and you—" He gestured toward her, not accusing, but lost. "You burn like the stories no one dares speak aloud."
"I didn't ask for this."
"I know."
The wind picked up again, sharp and dry.
He sat on a jutting stone, exhaling. His shoulders curled inward, like something breaking quietly.
Evelyn sat beside him.
"You remember the old orchard past Isenhold's north fence?" he asked.
She nodded. "Where you tried to fight the bees."
Torren snorted once. "I wasn't trying to fight them. I thought the hive was warded."
"You were eight. And dumb."
"I'm still dumb." He looked down at his leg. "But now I'm dumb and useless."
"You're not useless." She said it too quickly, and hated that.
Torren looked at her then—really looked. "Tell me something, Ev. When the shard burns… when the voices come… do you still feel like you?"
She blinked. "Sometimes." A pause. "Sometimes more. Sometimes less."
He nodded, as if that confirmed some quiet fear. "That's what scares me."
Evelyn looked to the sky. Dusk was bleeding through the clouds, a stain of violet-gray.
"Maybe I'm changing," she said. "Maybe I already have. But you're still the one who pulled me out of the fire. You're still the one who stood between me and that Echoed beast without thinking."
"I nearly died."
"But you didn't. And I wouldn't have made it without you."
He was quiet a moment.
"I hate being afraid of you," he finally said. "And I hate being afraid for you even more."
Evelyn's throat tightened. She reached for his hand. He didn't pull away.
They sat in silence as Vareth returned, his expression unreadable.
"Found shelter," the scout said. "Hollow outcrop. Good view. Better cover. But we'll need to move now—there's something tracking the old scent trail."
Torren stood with effort. Evelyn helped him.
As they walked, she thought about the ember inside her—how it was growing louder, clearer. How each use left her more tired, more changed.
But she also thought of Torren's hand in hers. Of how much he still mattered.
And how, if the worst came, she'd burn the whole world before letting him fall.